In the arms of an Angel
by insert witty
Summary: TAITO!! What does one do when stuck in depression and addiction? (ok, ok, so this sucks, but hey, it's my first thing written in ages!)


A/N: I am alive! I did not die! I haven't written anything in like over six months! …So I hope this is ok… This time I really do have a good excuse for not posting or updating anything in such a long time, but I don't really like to talk about that experience that much, you'll have to trust me on that… So please forgive me for it, I hope you will still give this a chance.

Please  read, and please, please, do review! (I feed of those, honestly, if it weren't for those wonderful people reviewing and encouraging me to keep on I probably never would have sat down by the computer to write ever again, which would've been pretty sad since I really do like it, more like love it, so I'd really much like to say THANK YOU! You ARE great.)

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing of Digimon (except for a stuffed patamon) and also this fic goes along the lines of a brilliant song by Sarah McLachlan: Angel. Thank you, Sarah, for those lyrics and that melody. Now let's get on with the fic then, shall we?  

In The Arms Of An Angel

By: ThatGirl 

The needle was in his arm again, the poisonous liquid flowing into his veins once more. Only once more. That was what he always told himself. Tomorrow things would be different, not the same as today. Or so he told himself; they never were. They never changed. He had spent all his time waiting for a second chance that never came. What that chance was he did not know, and maybe he had already missed it. Right now his mind was too far away from his head to care, floating somewhere above, scull stuffed with cotton instead of brain. 

It did not make any difference, did it? Escaping one last time. There was always some reason to feel not good enough, and at the end of every day it was hard. He wondered, perhaps if he fell asleep he would not wake up? God, that would be nice… Just sleep and sleep forever, in this distant state of being, like a cloud sailing in the skies without one thought but the wind playfully caressing it.

One should know he needed the distraction. All those flashing, bright lights, the roar of the audience screaming for more, more, more, the never-ending hours in aeroplanes flying from city to city, country to country, the stubborn fans, the stalkers, never giving him one moment of peace, the letters that did not seem to stop coming… Written in blue ink with rusty red, dried drops of something on the envelopes, they described in detail what would happen to him if he did this, if he did that… The author was stubborn. They never seemed to stop slipping into his mail. _God_ should know he needed the distraction. And the memories, the memories… it hurt too much to even think about them. Taichi… By no means could he ever look into those eyes again, feel those arms around him. Taichi was no longer there, he was dead, lifeless, a rotting corpse in a buried coffin. When he gave in to death's hand, did he know what he what leaving behind, did that thought even cross his mind? 

No… he should not be thinking in those terms. Taichi was gone and that was it, it had been inevitable, it had been killing him slowly from the inside. Aids and HIV. The only question was how, because he, himself, did not have it. However, the drummer of his band did, and his suspicions could only have been altered by their behaviour on that stupid release party, now ostensibly so long ago, so remote.... No, stop thinking about it. Stop thinking. How could he know for sure, anyway?

Man, this beautiful release, he would not be able to keep on at all without it. Not that it mattered. Keeping on. Any day could be anyone's last, and when his came –soon he hoped– he would embrace it with the love of one who embraces his long lost one true love when it is finally found and brought to him.

The hand that held the needle in place in his pale skin was starting to loose feeling. He could no longer move it and dazedly, numbly watched as the fingers pushed the last of shot's contents into his body. Shit. Too fast and too much, he knew it, but how could he really care? What happened happened, what could be done about it? If he could only be empty and weightless for a short time, it would be all right. Maybe he would find some peace tonight. 

Not aware of almost anything. So beautiful. So fucking, tear-jerkingly beautiful. He could drift here in this limbo of nothingness for all time, eternally, everlastingly. 

Yet everything has its end somewhere. 

Blood pumped through his hear so loudly he could not head anything but it. His vision was failing, a sort of soft tingling sensation all over his skin.

He was so tired of the straight line that his life was. Even if that line went as the crow flies directly up towards the light points of the night sky in a rock star career. Everywhere he turned there were vultures and thieves at his back, nagging for a chunk of something that was his, but was not he. It made him sick and it made him want to tear his heart out for the ache in it that seemed to rasp more and more every beat it washed blood and drugs through his body. And the storm kept on twisting, as he kept on building the lie the magazines and paparazzi took snap-shots of and printed in coloured pictures with a smashing text line under on a cover or first page. It never ended: his lie, his life. The endlessness, he hated it and feared it, because it was always present. Tomorrow as today as yesterday and the day before that. A lie, to make up for all that he lacked, and cover up for all that he was.   
Was there not any way to fly away from here? This dark, cold hotel room, anonymous, like so many others. A miniature bathroom, a bed, a nightstand, a small TV on the wall that no-one ever turned on. The only light there was was the shimmering moon outside, shining as though it was made of glass through the single, half open window. A bitter breeze swept into the room and if he was not so out of it he would have shivered, but now his body, his shell with the glazed, azure eyes, did not register on the chill.

This time did not make any difference, did it? Was that not right? One… Last… Time… Of escaping. One last time, that was all this was… yes, like so many others…

It was so much easier to believe in this sweet madness than anything else. He did not curse his weakness; he solely numbly accepted and let himself live out this glorious sadness, bringing him to his knees every night. Yes, he loathed it, but when the tears burned and the heart throbbed it was the quickest way of release. Disgustingly enough there was no denying that.

In his chest his heartbeats were pounding almost like the ones of a rabbit, speeding, it hurt, he spun where he lay limply in trance with small crystalline beads of sweat on his brow. Trembling slightly, then shaking, muscles tensing without command or permission from the soaring brain. Lips parted, a shallow intake of breath, eyes half-lidded, face relaxing.

Somewhere he could see the damned gossip headlines of tomorrow and it seemed that day would not be as yesterday after all. See the others find and read those letters, the latest ones he had not had time to burn yet, and their faces, oh, he did not mean to hurt them... This was just the way it went sometimes for some people. What could one do, it did not matter. Needed to blink, eyes were dry, but the lids would not obey. 

Suddenly, he felt as though he was gently lifted up in the air and his sight went black despite the fact that he still not had been able to shut his eyes. A soft breath warmed his cheek as he was pulled from the wreckage of his silent reverie. In the arms of an angel.

"I hope you'll find some comfort here", it murmured quietly.

"Taichi…?" Yamato whispered, his voice weak and raspy owing to his dehydrated throat. Slipping away.

"Shh," was the only answer, "shh, and go to rest, Yamato."

A/N: Hmm… did you get that..? *looks a bit insecure* So, what did you think of it? Horribly bad or maybe… good? Please review and tell me!


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